We zoom on down the road home and I even pretend to be asleep for part of the journey, but all the time my head is scrambled as feelings I don’t want to acknowledge race through my mind. I want to tell Jack and just come clean but I’ve left it too long now. I’ve lied to him and I hate myself for it. I really wish we hadn’t gone to the concert tonight. One day I’ll learn to listen to my gut. One day I won’t be so reckless. I really feel I was playing with fire tonight, and I got close to being burned.

I lie in bed as September rain pitter-patters on the window pane of our cottage and turn around on my pillow, reaching out to touch Jack. But my hand just meets empty sheets.

I open my eyes, wondering what day it is, and my stomach drops as the memories of the night before come flooding back. The concert, the noise, the screams of the crowd, the look on Jack’s face when Tom said he was in Matthew’s band, the sick feeling in my stomach as I watched him perform, the song … oh my God, the song. And now the web of lies I’ve created.

‘Jack?’ I call out, untangling myself from the sheets. I get up and put on my dressing gown, then make my way out to the top of the stairs where I can hear music coming from downstairs and the smell of frying bacon wafting up the stairs. Jack is listening to and singing along to The Police. Sting is singing one of my favourites, ‘Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic’, and Jack knows every word, which makes me smile. He sang that to me on one of our early dates. I feel like I’ve woken up to a second chance, so glad that all my secret past with Tom Farley wasn’t revealed last night. I hope that it’s over. That it’s never mentioned again, though I know that the next time we see Matthew, Jack will mention it innocently, not knowing the history and the mess attached to his name. And then Matthew will lecture me even more about how I need to get over Tom Farley and be honest with myself, once and for all.

I make my way down to the kitchen where I’m surprised to see Sophie at our table, dressed for work in her grey pinstripe suit and red lipstick. She looks tired, as if she’d rather be in bed than en route to nearby Arklow for a meeting. I remember she told me about going there last night.

‘I desperately needed a coffee so thought I’d swing by,’ she says in apology as if she’s interrupting us. ‘Sorry if I disturbed your morning.’